Free
by fsugrad05
Summary: What if Mickey had been a bit more reflective on his own and what if Ian had been a bit more empathic? Takes place in season 3 sometime after the scene where Mickey's dad walks in on them in the Milkovich home and the scene where Mickey comes out.


**Trigger warning: Talk of rape, child neglect, implied child abuse, anxiety attack**

 **Author's note: So, this takes place sometime after the rape and before the coming out scene in season 3. I realize that by this point, Ian was already starting to show signs of his bipolar disorder, but I have to believe that he would have had a lot more empathy for what Mickey experienced and for what he experienced by proxy in that scene with Svetlana. Because it was pretty brutal. Anyway, here is my take on how I wish things could have gone down. Inspired by Kesha's 'Praying', which I thought would be an awesome (funny?) juxtaposition because of Mickey's character.**

 **Disclaimer: All recognizable characters (and any recognizable dialogue) from Shameless (US) belong to Showtime and whoever created this amazing show.**

 _Praying by Kesha_

 _Well, you almost had me fooled_

 _Told me that I was nothing without you_

 _Oh, but after everything you've done_

 _I can thank you for how strong I have become_

 _'Cause you brought the flames and you put me through hell_

 _I had to learn how to fight for myself_

 _And we both know all the truth I could tell_

 _I'll just say this is "I wish you farewell"_

 _I hope you're somewhere prayin', prayin'_

 _I hope your soul is changin', changin'_

 _I hope you find your peace_

 _Falling on your knees, prayin'_

Mickey cocked his head to the side and bit his lip on concentration. What the fuck was this song? He felt a stirring in his chest that he labeled heartburn. He had never had heartburn before; do teenagers even get fucking heartburn? Mickey listened to the lyrics closely and suddenly realized it wasn't fucking heartburn. Fuck. He felt his eyes go wide at the thoughts swirling in his head and the physical effect they were having on his body. He gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles white. His breathing was quickly coming in short gasps that he could not catch. What. The. Fuck.

 _I'm proud of who I am_

 _No more monsters, I can breathe again_

 _And you said that I was done_

 _Well, you were wrong and now the best is yet to come_

 _'Cause I can make it on my own, oh_

 _And I don't need you, I found a strength I've never known_

 _I'll bring thunder, I'll bring rain, oh_

 _When I'm finished, they won't even know your name_

 _You brought the flames and you put me through hell_

 _I had to learn how to fight for myself_

 _And we both know all the truth I could tell_

 _I'll just say this is "I wish you farewell"_

 _I hope you're somewhere prayin', prayin'_

 _I hope your soul is changin', changin'_

 _I hope you find your peace_

 _Falling on your knees, prayin'_

Mickey attempted to jam his finger onto the buttons on the radio; he needed this shit off, like yesterday. He couldn't fucking breathe; he could barely see where the fuck he was going. But his fingers betrayed him and he couldn't open his fucking hand to save his god-dammed life. His heart was pounding so hard, he had another thought about heartburn or a heart attack. A fucking heart attack? That could explain it, although, fuck if he knew what a heart attack felt like. What he did know was that if he didn't stop driving this car or listening to this song, he was going to fucking crash. He was officially losing his shit. Fuck his shit.

 _Ah sometimes, I pray for you at night, oh_

 _Someday, maybe you'll see the light_

 _Whoa oh oh oh, some say, in life, you're gonna get what you give_

 _But some things only God can forgive_

 _Yeah! (I hope you're somewhere prayin', prayin')_

 _I hope your soul is changin', changin'_

 _I hope you find your peace_

 _Falling on your knees, prayin'_

By the time he was able to pull into a deserted parking lot, the song had ended and he was dripping with sweat. He was transported back to the only time he could ever remember feeling like this. He was four years old, probably one of his first fucking memories. He had been left alone for four days in the Milkovich house. At four, he had counted how many times he had seen the moon to keep track. At the time, he had no idea where his dad was, but looking back on it; he had probably gone on a run and took his siblings with him. By the second moon, Mickey was convinced nobody was ever coming back for him. At four, he had long since learned how to take care of himself, but he was never completely left alone. Mickey tried to remember what his four year old self had done to make the feeling leave and never fucking come back but his memory wasn't kind enough to include that helpful bit of fucking information.

Mickey was not a religious man by any stretch of the definition but the sentiment in the song was still there. A lifetime of living in the Milkovich house taught him that the only thing he could ever count on was that there was nothing or nobody he could ever fucking count on, except fear. It took him a long time to recognize that it was the fear that probably kept him alive all these years. But damn if that song didn't punch him right in the fucking gut. He felt like a fucking pussy, what kind of Milkovich listens to a pansy ass song like this. And then fucking resonates with it. Maybe that was the fucking problem then. Well, maybe that wasn't the exact problem, because he would deny the importance of this moment to anyone for the rest of his life. He took a look around just to make sure there were no witnesses to this epiphany happening within him. He's a fucking idiot, so paranoid that someone might think anything of him other than what he tried to project. Another fucking problem, conditioned so deep within his soul that he actually thought that was who he was.

Fuck Terry fucking Milkovich and his twisted idea of love and family. The house of horrors he grew up in was a shit-show of epic proportions, no wonder he couldn't fucking admit to Ian that he fucking loved him. What the fuck was love anyways? Love was getting left alone at four years old for four fucking days because Terry was too drunk to remember to bring him or worse, didn't fucking care enough to bring him. Mickey wasn't sure which was worse. Love was getting the fag fucked out of him because his father was so insecure with his own damn self that he couldn't see past that? No, that wasn't fucking love. Mickey may not be able to define what love exactly was, but he sure as shit knew it wasn't Terry fucking Milkovich. When Terry went after Ian, he saw red and wanted to fucking kill him. Was that love? Seems a bit violent, but then again, he was still a Milkovich.

Irrationally, Mickey wanted to hear that fucking song again. He couldn't get the words out of his head. Something about hearing thoughts that he repressed so deep, you would need a jackhammer to reach, put out there, for all the world to hear, was Fucking. Him. Up. He wanted to go find Terry and tell him to go fuck himself and his fucking Russian hooker. He wanted to tell him that he was fucking gay and that he loved Ian fucking Gallagher. What fucking fantasy world was he living in? Fuck this, he _was_ proud of who he was and he was done with his fucking monster. He needed Ian. If he wasn't losing his shit so spectacularly in this moment, he would have the good sense to be fucking mortified at the thoughts that ran rampant through his head. Regardless, Mickey took out his phone to text Ian.

 _M: Where you at?_

 _I: Home, y?_

That was a good fucking question. Even if Mickey could admit to himself that he needed Ian, he wasn't sure how to put that into words. So he didn't. He figured if he just ignored the text long enough, he could count on Ian to do the work. Because as much as it was engrained into the fibers of his being, not to count on anybody or anything, Ian has found a way to slowly peel back those cancerous thoughts. As he stared at his phone though, the small nugget of faith started to disappear and the tightness in his chest started again. Fuck. He really needed to get his breathing under control or he was sure he was going to fucking die. Eyes wild, he knew he resembled a caged animal backed up against a wall but shit if he knew what to do about it. As he started to lose complete control, he felt his phone buzz in his hand and looked at it distractedly. Ian. Shit, now what. He hit the green button but did not say a word, couldn't, even if he tried.

"Mick? You there?" He was still gasping for breath and he was sure Ian would be able to hear that. This was confirmed when Ian spoke again, with controlled panic in his tone. "Mickey? You ok?" The longer the silence dragged on with only Mickey's gasps coming through the line, the control began disappearing from Ian's voice, until panic was all that was left.

"You gotta say something Mick…you're starting to really freak me the fuck out… Where are you? Just tell me where you are and I can come to you…fuck Mick, where the fuck are you?"

"Don't know." Mickey gasped out and was surprised and to be completely honest, embarrassed, to hear the squeak in his voice. And the desperation, damn did he sound pathetic, no wonder Ian sounded like he was also losing his shit.

"Shit, okay Mick, you gotta take some deep breaths, in through your nose and out through your mouth, breathe with me, come on I want to hear you breathe." As Ian counted out breaths, Mickey started to calm by the rhythmic tone to his voice and the much needed oxygen to his system. After what felt like hours, he was finally able to breathe in a much more livable cadence.

"Can you talk now? Can you tell me where you are?" Ian's voice was starting to regain some of the control back, but it was clear that Mickey just scared the fuck out of him. Mickey couldn't blame him, he scared the fuck out of himself. Mickey was able to describe to Ian his whereabouts and with a promise not to move, he hung up the phone to wait for him. But the question still remained, what the fuck was he going to say to him once Ian was standing in front of him?


End file.
